Glasses
by Magnus McKay
Summary: Sherlock oneshot, one word drabble prompt. Mild Slash Warning. Old age creeps up on everyone eventually, even the two heroes of Baker Street. NOW WITH BONUS CHAPTER!
1. Sherlock & John

A dry tongue flicked over cracked lips, shaking hands filling out the crossword with a fountain pen. Sherlock smiled a little as he got the last few letters done, pushing his glasses up his lined face. John was sat beside him in his chair, gently dozing, his white hair ruffled and a hand on Sherlock's arm, wedding band glinting in the light.

Sherlock smiled to himself and got up with aid of his walking stick, taking his reading glasses off and popping them on his seat. More than likely, he would forget they were there and sit on the blasted things, requiring another trip to Specsavers on pension day.

Humming to himself, he leaned down and kissed John's brow, smoothing his fingertips over the wrinkles of his cheek. Smiling happily he shuffled off to the kitchen, his long, arthritis bent fingers trailing in John's hair for a moment.

"Love you." he whispered, as he always did when he left the room, left John's side, which wasn't very often these days.

John shifted in his slumber and frowned, his eyes opening and looking at the empty chair beside him. He heard it, a loud thump from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of Sherlock's walking stick hitting the tiles of the kitchen floor.

He was up in a second, the pain in his limbs forgotten as he hurried into the kitchen to find his love on the floor, his face slack and peaceful. A sob made John quake as he fell to his knees, his old fingers finding Sherlock's wrist as he checked for a pulse.

Nothing.

Large tears dripped from John's eyes, splashing onto the lenses of his little round glasses, clouding his sight. Shaking fingers ran through soft grey curls that had become fluffy and soft in Sherlock's old age.

"Not again. Please, don't leave me again, Sherlock." John choked, resting his head on Sherlock's chest and holding his hand tightly.

They say that when a love bird dies, their mate doesn't hesitate to follow. The same is said about soul mates, when one dies, the other follows to join their partner into whatever adventure comes next. The same was true of that old couple, found together hand in hand, happy smiles on their faces.

Because somewhere new, smooth pale fingers met a callous tan hand, holding onto each other. Young faces smiled and they ran, just like they used to. On to the next great game.


	2. Jim & Sebastian

Sebastian had fallen asleep with the whole world in his arms, when he woke, it was gone.

Jim had died over a month ago now. Sebastian had woken one bright sunny morning to look down at Jim, To look into his old and tired eyes, that had finally released the spark of his spirit, his essence, the fire and madness within.

Jim Moriarty was just a man. After all these years thinking that Jim would go on living, never age - even though his perfectly combed hair had turned grey a long time ago - to outlast the earth, it turned out he was just a man.

Sebastian had lost Jim once before, thinking him dead. But this time Jim wouldn't come back, wouldn't punch him in the face and shake him until he stopped gibbering like an idiot. Sebastian's world was gone, all gone.

Snuffling and sighing, Sebastian never left the house, Jim's round, horn-rimmed glasses clutched tightly in one hand as he walked around the house, lay in bed, fell asleep watching war films on a Sunday afternoon. He began to fade, barely rising from his bed.

This morning, he woke to the most perfect blue cloudless sky winking at him through the window. The glasses rested by his side on Jim's pillow that had lost the little mans delicate scent weeks ago. Rolling over to face it, Sebastian drew in a deep breath, a little smile beginning to brighten his face.

"Is it time to go now?" Sebastian whispered.

"Yes, my Tiger, my Sebby… its time to come with me. Don't worry, I've always got need of my sniper, dove. Come to Daddy, come to me now. I've sooooooo missed you." a impish Irish brogue called, singsong and light.

Sebastian's cracked old face broke into a brilliant smile, his age seeming to fall away like layers of skin peeling away, like a snake shedding its skin. Reaching out, Sebastian took the pale, powdery smelling hand offered to him and looked into chocolate brown eyes that stirred with fire and brimstone.

Jim gave his wicked smile and his manic laugh, slicking his jet black hair back and then smoothing the lapel of his Westwood. Sebastian began to grin, his ice blue eyes washing over his Jim, appreciative of his figure.

"Welcome to Hell, baby… and guess whose running the show? Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex…"


End file.
